


Love Loser

by tsuristyle



Category: SMAP
Genre: Aerosmith albums, Blowjobs, First Time, Jeans, M/M, and several more times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle/pseuds/tsuristyle
Summary: For once in his life, he doesn't mind admitting defeat.(Set in late 1999. Sex, angst, excessive introspection, and AU in that Kimura doesn't eventually get married. Written November 2014.)





	1. Glamorous

From the start, from as far back as he can remember, Tsuyoshi has always looked up to Kimura. He shines, glitters, radiates under stage lights and camera flashes, cool and calm from a distance, burning fire up close. He's a star, ascending in the heavens.  
  
Oh, how he would give anything to be Kimura, just for a day.  
  
Tsuyoshi isn't always sure why he joined Johnny's but he's pretty certain that, growing up watching idols on TV, he had always thought that being an idol automatically meant you were _cool_. Thirteen-year-old Tsuyoshi was not cool, but if he became an idol, he would be. It didn't take long for him to figure out that it didn't really work that way, of course, but the drive to be cool stayed, taunting him to keep trying, that maybe this time, just for a moment, he'll shine brighter than all the rest.  
  
The problem is, Kimura always gets there before him. Kimura starts acting before he does, gets roles in dramas before he does, sings better, dances better, looks better in jeans than he does. He wears the expensive shoes Tsuyoshi's been saving up for to rehearsal like they were any old pair of sneakers. He always has an interesting story, a comeback, an insightful remark at just the right moment-- and people listen. No one ever rolls their eyes when Kimura talks.  
  
Even kendo, the one thing Tsuyoshi could confidently say he was good at-- his bandmate defeats him with ease, over and over. Kimura thumps him on the back and tells him it was a good fight, but it's not what he wants to hear. It's humiliating and frustrating and for once, just once, he wants to _win_.  
  
He can't, of course; he's out of his league when it comes to Kimura, and he knows it. But sometimes Tsuyoshi just doesn't want to admit defeat.  
  
  
It's also the case, though, that from as far back as he can remember, Tsuyoshi has always looked at Kimura with a bit more than just envy and wistful hero worship. Kimura is the definition of erotic; Tsuyoshi has known this long before his bandmate grew his hair out and the nation collectively sat up and took notice. Kimura the hair-gelled Ameri-casual-wearing teenager has sex before any of them, sneaks dirty magazines into break rooms, tells stories and jokes that make Tsuyoshi blush pink with embarrassment. He talks about sex like it's the most fascinating, most important thing in the world.  
  
So really it's only natural that Tsuyoshi can't help but think of sex whenever he sees Kimura. It's already written in the lines of his body, in every hip sway and naughty grin and teasing glance at the camera, well before some commercial producer puts lipstick on him and loses a fortune in stolen advertising posters. When his bandmate exudes casual sensuality like it's a crime for him not to be having sex, how can Tsuyoshi possibly think of anything else?  
  
When he starts thinking about having sex _with_ Kimura, though, then Tsuyoshi isn't so sure. The thought sneaks in late one night, when he's sleepy and drunk and not thinking about anything except how good it feels, and after that it refuses to go away no matter how many videos and magazines he buys. He tries to ignore it, squash it down-- Kimura is his _bandmate_ , he's a _guy_ , he's got to be straight even if Tsuyoshi apparently isn't as much as he thought he was-- but once eventually becomes twice and twice is enough to know just how much he wants it. If Kimura is a star, aflame in the heavens, then Tsuyoshi wants to get burned.  
  
It's never going to happen, of course. He can't even look Kimura in the eye most of the time, let alone have an extended conversation, and the prospect of inviting him anywhere is downright terrifying. Even if his bandmate was even remotely interested, Tsuyoshi just doesn't have that kind of courage. If only Kimura were to come to _him_ , sultry and seductive, just once, just _once_...  
  
Then, for once, maybe he wouldn't mind losing.  
  
  
Tsuyoshi is twenty-five when he gets his wish-- in a way. He's handed a script one afternoon that very nearly makes his eyebrows disappear into his hair, shortly followed by the rest of him turning a very deep shade of pink.  
  
He's a reporter, interviewing movie star Kimura-- who spends every moment of it trying to seduce him.  
  
His first thought is-- _At least there isn't any kissing_. He's pretty sure he's been pinned down and kissed by a cross-dressing Nakai enough to last a lifetime. By comparison, this is totally tame! Really, what's there to worry about?  
  
What the script fails to mention is that the room is _extremely_ small, that Kimura is wearing _leather pants_ , and that Tsuyoshi would spend a good part of the skit with his knees pressed against Kimura's crotch. By the end of filming he's very, _very_ grateful for the briefcase positioned conveniently over his lap, and with it he manages to flee back to his dressing room with his dignity still somewhat intact.  
  
Kimura's hand on his neck-- Kimura's _breath_ hot on his _lips_ \--  
  
Halfway out of his costume, he's calmed down enough that he's pretty sure it's not obvious anymore when there's a loud knock on the door. It opens before he can answer, and there is Kimura, already changed and swinging his keys from one hand.  
  
"Yo," he says, keys jangling. "Let's go eat."  
  
Tsuyoshi pauses in the middle of undoing his belt buckle. "Eat?"  
  
"Out," Kimura elaborates. "As in dinner. I'll drive." He gives his keys an emphatic shake and leans against the doorjamb.  
  
Dinner. Kimura has spent the better part of the afternoon pretending to seduce Tsuyoshi, and now wants to have dinner with him. Tsuyoshi would be thrilled, except that all he wants to do right now is go home and give in to the arousal he's been desperately fighting the whole time.  
  
Kimura's gaze flicks downward, and he smirks. Tsuyoshi turns away, trying not to blush as he strips the costume pants off and struggles into his own jeans.  
  
"Sure," he says. Wherever they go, he hopes that gratin isn't on the menu.  
  
  
Kimura takes him to an Italian place with soccer jerseys on the wall and a wine list longer than the menu itself, and barely gives the menu a cursory glance before leaning back to light a cigarette. Tsuyoshi stares at the list of pastas and pizzas fuzzily and wonders if Kimura will think he's boring if he just orders plain meat sauce.  
  
"I think I'll just get meat sauce," he says finally, folding the menu up with an apologetic smile.  
  
Kimura raises an eyebrow, one quick quirk, and taps ash from his cigarette. "Same here." He perches the cigarette in his mouth and reaches for the wine list. "You'll want a red, then."  
  
The wine Kimura orders is heavy and sweet, the headily aromatic scent making Tsuyoshi giddy at the first sip. By the time they finish eating he's feeling a little light-headed and a lot more relaxed.  
  
"...so then from 1942 to 1944, the war was going on at the time, so instead of a filled core button they switched to using a donut-shaped one..." Tsuyoshi finger-draws a little donut shape in the air as they walk back to Kimura's car.  
  
Kimura _hmm_ s with what might or might not be interest. "To conserve material?"  
  
"Right! And the cool thing is, you know how laurel leaves are a symbol of peace, right, well, since it was wartime, instead of the company logo, they put a laurel wreath around the top of the button." Tsuyoshi smiles fondly. "A symbol of peace in a time of war."  
  
Kimura quirks his eyebrows at him. "So what kind are you wearing right now?"  
  
"Levi 501 Redline Single Stitch from the early 1970s," Tsuyoshi reels off proudly, patting his denim-covered hip. "They've got really nice fading, and-- see, here's the older filled core button I was talking about--" He pulls his shirt up, revealing the button on his jeans.  
  
Kimura crouches down in front of him to inspect the button. "If you look carefully, you can see they use an asterisk as a spacer instead of a dot--" Tsuyoshi comes down from jeansland, realizing that Kimura is face level with his crotch with a hand on his thigh. Kimura looks up and seems to come to his senses as well, flashing him a toothy smile as he stands back up. "I'll drive you home."  
  
Tsuyoshi smoothes his shirt down self-consciously. "O-okay."  
  
  
"No, see, Aerosmith was influential because they fused the blues rock sound with heavy metal and R&B, if you listen to _Rocks_ and _Toys in the Attic_ you'll totally hear it--"  
  
"Wait, so how are they different from Bon Jovi again?"  
  
"They're totally different! Does this _sound_ like blues rock to you?"  
  
"Umm--"  
  
"Never mind, don't answer that." Kimura flicks cigarette ash out the window. It's half-open, cool night air breezing gently through the car. "I'll lend you some albums. Where's the next turn?"  
  
"Right at the next stoplight." They wait in the turn lane, cars rushing by on either side, and Tsuyoshi debates telling Kimura just to drop him off a few blocks away. He did that once before, a couple years ago, when Kimura had offered to drive him home from rehearsal. He'd been nervous then, too.  
  
Kimura glances over suspiciously. "Don't even think about getting out early. I'm taking you _all_ the way this time, okay?"  
  
Tsuyoshi laughs weakly, remembering the look on Kimura's face as he'd waved through the passenger window from the sidewalk. He hadn't wanted to bring SMAP members to his place, clinging to the little anonymity he had left, and especially not Kimura, because he didn't really know what he wanted yet and if Kimura came over he might ask to come in, and then it would be just the two of them alone in his apartment and Tsuyoshi had been terrified at that thought.  
  
He still is, but the wine has worked wonders on his nerves and he simply nods, sitting back in his seat as Kimura steps on the accelerator.  
  
The moment of silence when Kimura turns off the car seems to stretch for a long time. Tsuyoshi can't tell if he's imagining that Kimura is looking at him or not, so he makes a fuss of untwisting the strap on his bag and reaches for the door handle.  
  
"I'll walk you up," his bandmate says. Tsuyoshi hesitates for a second, and then nods again, swallowing nervously.  
  
Kimura gets out and walks with him, whistling idly with his hands tucked in his pockets as they step into the elevator. He stops whistling when they reach Tsuyoshi's floor.  
  
"I'm not drunk," Tsuyoshi tells him, digging out his keys and searching for the right one. "I mean, it was only one glass of wine. You don't have to--" He cuts off, because he's just glanced up and noticed that Kimura is standing _very_ close.  
  
"I know," Kimura says, or maybe it's more like a murmur, and then there are warm fingers sliding up his back and Tsuyoshi looks down and tries to focus on remembering which key exactly was the one to his apartment. This one? No, this one. Kimura's breath shivers across the nape of his neck. Yes, definitely this one.  
  
They stumble inside and then Tsuyoshi is shoved up against the closed door, Kimura's body pressed tightly against his, Kimura's mouth working hotly on his, Kimura's hands shoving his jacket off and sliding up under his shirt. Tsuyoshi doesn't have time to breathe, let alone protest, and when Kimura starts mouthing his way down his neck he can't think of any reason to protest anyway, gasping and curling his fingers into Kimura's back. The tension he's been supressing all day comes swirling back, flooding his groin with heat, and he rocks forward involuntarily.  
  
Kimura's hands grip his waist, holding him still, and Tsuyoshi wonders for one horrified moment if this really is all just a joke, if Kimura is about to laugh at him and sneer in disgust at his reaction.  
  
Then Kimura gets down onto his knees.  
  
Tsuyoshi manages a half-formed noise of shock as his bandmate undoes the front of his jeans and pulls him out, and then Kimura's lips and tongue wrap around him and it's everything he can do just to hold still. He comes too fast but too wound-up to hold out any longer, and Kimura doesn't pull away-- his hands tighten on Tsuyoshi's hips as he swallows, riding it out until Tsuyoshi catches his breath again.  
  
Tsuyoshi looks down in mortification-- he didn't even give Kimura any warning-- but his bandmate wipes his mouth with a smirk and tugs on the front of his jeans as he stands up. "Didn't want to get any on your vintage."  
  
And with that, he's gone, out the door with a thump on the shoulder and a reminder not to be late to rehearsal, leaving Tsuyoshi to slump back against the door and wonder what the hell just happened.


	2. Hadaka no ousama/The Naked King

The next day is absolute, utter hell.  
  
Tsuyoshi is, as luck would have it, late to rehearsal-- he'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, thinking and thinking and thinking-- but Kimura doesn't even blink before chewing him out. He doesn't show anything at all, not even a hint of a smile or laugh or frown to acknowledge that _something_ happened the previous night, and after that he doesn't so much as glance Tsuyoshi's way during the rest of rehearsal, either. He's Kimura as usual, in other words, and Tsuyoshi feels a little silly for expecting anything else.  
  
Tsuyoshi, for his part, is a mess. He's flushed, he can barely concentrate, he messes up the dance steps so many times that Goro pats his shoulder reassuringly and asks if he's okay. He can't stop thinking about it every time Kimura crosses his line of vision, which is a lot throughout the course of a rehearsal, and by the end he's exhausted from more than just the dancing.  
  
Kimura leaves without a second glance.  
  
Filming is exactly the same; Kimura is, as far as he can tell, completely indifferent. Tsuyoshi, meanwhile, can't even manage a simple conversation, and when he walks into the break room to see Kimura reading a book on the couch and no one else, he panics and mumbles some excuse and flees the room as fast as he can.  
  
By the end of the day, he manages to calm down a little. If Kimura can act normal, then so can he. And he'd really rather not have a repeat of Shingo playing Tsuyopon-is-acting-weird-so-I'm-going-to-guess-who-he-has-a-crush-on if he can help it, especially when the rest of SMAP and most of the staff are also in the room.  
  
After that, he's too busy with his drama to think about anything at all, and by the time the next SmaSma filming rolls around he's half-convinced that he actually dreamed the whole thing. Why would Kimura be that interested in him, anyway? Either way, it doesn't seem likely to happen again, and he's fine with that. He's not greedy, he only ever wanted _once_ anyway. He can die content now. Right?  
  
"Tsuyoshi."  
  
Tsuyoshi blinks out of his thoughts as he waits for the elevator and turns, looking down the hall. It's Kimura.  
  
"On your way out?" Kimura catches up to him, glancing up at the number the elevator is on. Tsuyoshi nods, clutching the strap of his bag.  
  
Kimura flashes him a grin. "I'll drive you home."  
  
  
Tsuyoshi isn't as wound-up this time, so Kimura takes his time in leisurely pulling Tsuyoshi's pants down to his ankles and slides his hands along his bottom before taking him in his mouth.  
  
He's slow and languid, sucking softly and playing his tongue over the head, nibbling and taunting and teasing until Tsuyoshi's legs start to shake. Kimura looks up with a smirk, and then grasps his bottom tightly and pulls him forward into his mouth again, giving him all he's got, and Tsuyoshi comes panting hard, his knees threatening to give way when Kimura finally lets go.  
  
Kimura looks up at him again, licking his lips. "Seriously, try not to be late this time."  
  
And then once again he's gone, and once again catching his breath alone and half-naked in the entranceway of his apartment, Tsuyoshi wonders how he could have ever thought that just _once_ would be enough.  
  
  
After that, strangely enough, it's like a fire has been lit under Kimura's skin; he randomly gives Tsuyoshi a high five when they pass in the hall, he reaches over to adjust the waist of Tsuyoshi's chef outfit, he sits barely an inch away and rests his hand on Tsuyoshi's thigh under the table while explaining the food to the guest with a perfectly innocent expression. Tsuyoshi can hardly say no when he finds Kimura waiting for him at the elevators, nor the next time when Kimura watches him in the mirror the entire rehearsal (always without ever missing a beat, of course).  
  
Nor, a week later, when Kimura pokes his head into Tsuyoshi's dressing room twenty minutes before filming.  
  
"Goro's not here, is he?"  
  
Which is all the warning Tsuyoshi gets before he's on the couch with Kimura between his legs, desperately trying not to make any noise as his bandmate does new and inventive things with his tongue.  
  
Afterwards, Kimura finger-combs his hair in the mirror and rubs his lips ruefully. "I look like I just gave someone head."  
  
Tsuyoshi watches him from the side, still slouched in afterglow on the couch. From here, he can see that Kimura is hard, pretty obviously so. They've done... _this_ several times now (although this is the first time it's been in his _dressing room_ , of all places), and while Tsuyoshi isn't about to question the inexplicable granting of his illicit fantasies, he can't help but notice that Kimura hasn't touched himself even once.  
  
 _Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he's not actually attracted to me. Maybe he doesn't mind this but he's disgusted by the idea of--_  
  
He bites his lip and finally finds his voice. "What about you?"  
  
Kimura turns, and frowns. "Zip yourself up already." He looks Tsuyoshi over, appearing to consider his question. "You've never given someone head before, have you."  
  
Tsuyoshi flushes, fingers fumbling as he does his pants back up. Kimura smirks. "Didn't think so." He turns back to the mirror and adjusts his belt so his jeans hang a little looser. "There's not enough time, anyway."  
  
Tsuyoshi isn't sure if he's disappointed or relieved as his bandmate heads for the door, but then Kimura pauses and glances back. "If it bothers you that much, though," he says, with a look that makes Tsuyoshi's mouth go dry, "We can do something _better_ next time."  
  
  
"So I told him, of course I don't want three bottles of shampoo, what am I going to do with all that? It's not even the kind I like, you know, the one in the pearly bottle--"  
  
"Uh-huh." Tsuyoshi turns the page of a magazine without really looking at it.  
  
"--and then he's like, but the third bottle is free! As if that's some great incentive-- I'd still have to buy two bottles of mediocre shampoo--"  
  
"Mm." He turns another page.  
  
"--so I said, no, I'll be quite happy with just one, and next time I come--"  
  
"Next time?" Tsuyoshi looks up in alarm, nearly dropping the magazine. Goro pulls it out of his hands, looking down at him. Tsuyoshi hadn't noticed he was standing there. " _Next time_ , I hope to be served by someone a little less pushy. Tsuyoshi, what's with you lately? Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
Tsuyoshi smiles weakly at Goro. "Sorry. I was just thinking about something." To say the least. _Next time_ has practically taken up residence in the back of his mind, fueling his imagination with images that are exciting and terrifying all at once-- he's imagined it before but he's never actually done it, does it really feel good? What if it's painful?  
  
Goro raises an eyebrow at him, but returns the magazine. "Well, if you need to talk about it, I won't mind."  
  
Tsuyoshi briefly imagines Goro's expression at hearing the question on his mind and decides against it-- Goro probably wouldn't be disgusted, but he'd definitely want to know _why_ Tsuyoshi is wondering about this and _who_ Tsuyoshi wants to do this with, and Tsuyoshi isn't ready to share that. "Thanks, Goro-chan," he says instead, flashing his bandmate another smile, and opens the magazine again. Within seconds, his imagination is already miles away.  
  
  
By the time he's on his bed with Kimura's hair tickling his thighs he's spent quite of lot of time thinking about it and he definitely, definitely wants to, he's just still not entirely sure if he's really _totally_ ready for this.  
  
Kimura seems to have forgotten, anyway, at the rate he's going. Tsuyoshi takes a hitched breath and makes his decision. "Um--"  
  
His bandmate lifts his head, eyebrows raised. Tsuyoshi swallows hard, feeling very exposed all of a sudden.  
  
"Um," he says, craning his neck awkwardly. "Last time you said, uh, you said we could. Um. You know."  
  
Kimura levers himself up, wiping the corner of his mouth. "Last time?"  
  
Tsuyoshi looks away, wondering if he's just destroyed the mood entirely. "You said we could do something... better," he mumbles.  
  
Kimura rubs his thumb along the inside of Tsuyoshi's thigh. "I did." He considers Tsuyoshi for a moment, and then crawls forward slowly, every movement like liquid, until he's straddling him and looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. "You want to do something better?"  
  
Tsuyoshi swallows, acutely aware of every point where Kimura's body is touching his. He stares at his bandmate's mouth, not daring to look any higher, and manages a nod.  
  
He watches breathlessly as Kimura sits up and pulls off his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his body, and then slowly draws the zipper of his jeans down. Jesus _christ_ , he's going to have sex with Kimura, he's going to have _sex_ with _Kimura_. Kimura catches Tsuyoshi's gaze and smirks, sliding a hand in to stroke himself through the front of his boxers. Tsuyoshi follows those fingers, mesmerized, watching as they slip under the waistband and Kimura tilts his head back, eyes half-shut in pleasure. God, the man is gorgeous.  
  
He props himself up on one elbow and stretches out his hand, tentatively brushing the front of Kimura's boxers. Kimura withdraws his hand, pushing his boxers down, and watches as Tsuyoshi wraps his fingers uncertainly around his cock. It's no different from touching himself, Tsuyoshi tells himself, tightening his grip and stroking experimentally.  
  
Kimura sucks in a breath and pushes into his hand, like maybe he's been waiting for this more than he's let on. He moves forward suddenly, planting his arms on either side of Tsuyoshi, and Tsuyoshi almost stops-- but then Kimura is kissing him, his breaths hitching with pleasure against Tsuyoshi's mouth.  
  
Tsuyoshi strokes faster, runs his thumb over the head, twists his fingers the way that always feels good for him, and Kimura seems to like it if the noise he makes into Tsuyoshi's mouth is anything to say for it. Then his bandmate breaks away, breath hot and sharp in Tsuyoshi's ear-- "Let's _fuck_."  
  
  
Tsuyoshi squeezes the pillow in his arms, tucking his chin over the top; Kimura is somewhere behind him with a condom and lubricant and he's not sure if he wants to turn and watch or just listen. Kimura told him to roll over, anyway, so he bites his lip and tries not to blush at the sounds reaching his ears.  
  
The bed jostles as Kimura returns, and Tsuyoshi nearly jumps as a hand trails over his bottom. Kimura pushes his legs apart, running his hands along the back of Tsuyoshi's thighs, and leans down to press his mouth to one cheek. He licks upward, a hot, wet stripe, and _oh god_ Tsuyoshi hopes he's clean enough because Kimura is circling a slick finger around his anus and pushing into him slowly and it feels like he can't spread his legs wide enough to let him in.  
  
"Relax." He can feel the curve of Kimura's smile against his skin.  
  
Tsuyoshi buries his face in the pillow, trying to untense as Kimura pours more lube on his fingers and pushes in again, kneading with one, then two this time. Too much friction; he's pushing back, how does anyone manage to do this? But then Kimura's other hand is under his hips and pulling him up onto his knees and Tsuyoshi pants slightly as his bandmate's fingers push deeper, as far as they can go.  
  
Kimura stops, waiting-- relax, relax, okay. Why do people do this? Aside from the fact that it's _Kimura_ who has him on his hands and knees with two fingers inside him, he doesn't quite see what's so--  
  
Kimura's fingers shift, rubbing against _something_ , and Tsuyoshi sucks in a sharp breath.  
  
Again.  
  
Again, slick fingers pulling back and pushing harder, sending that shivery something up his spine over and over again-- he's not even sure if it's pleasant or not but he wants Kimura to keep doing it. He braces himself, trying to push back onto Kimura's fingers, harder, faster.  
  
Kimura leans over him, and Tsuyoshi can hear the arousal in his voice. "Ready?"  
  
Tsuyoshi doesn't think he can manage words so he nods instead, trying not to groan as Kimura's fingers leave him. For a moment, Kimura isn't touching him at all, and he feels his face flush with embarrassment-- here he is, on his hands and knees with his butt in the air, dripping hard and panting, completely at his bandmate's mercy-- but it feels good. For once, Kimura's attention is on him and him alone.  
  
Kimura pushes into him, slowly, one hand tight on Tsuyoshi's hip as he guides himself in. It's too much-- Tsuyoshi grips the blankets, trying to breathe-- and Kimura stops. "Try touching yourself."  
  
Tsuyoshi braces himself on one arm and wraps his hand around his erection, stroking, and it takes a moment to even register the pleasure again but then suddenly it's easier and Kimura moves and he's all the way inside him.  
  
"Fuck," Kimura murmurs, his breath short. He rests his hands on Tsuyoshi's hips for a moment, and then pulls out, slowly, almost all the way, fumbling for the lube again as Tsuyoshi gasps involuntarily. Then he's pushing in again, and again, hands tightening as he builds up a slow rhythm. Tsuyoshi can hear himself making noises he'd never thought himself capable of, he can't help it, it's like alchemy the way the friction of his hand and the friction inside him become one and turn into something deeper and it's _Kimura_ inside him-- Kimura is finally fucking him, getting off on _him_ , he can't think of anything in the world that he's wanted more than this.  
  
Kimura moves faster, thrusting harder, his breath hot on Tsuyoshi's skin-- and then Tsuyoshi can't stop, he's shoving back against Kimura and arching his back and spilling all over his fingers in a sticky mess. Kimura keeps going, gripping his hips painfully tight, his head falling back as he works himself uneven and out of control until he finally loses it in a harsh, breathless moan.  
  
He pulls out and Tsuyoshi pitches forward, collapsing onto the bed. Kimura shoves him over and they both lie there, catching their breath.  
  
After a moment, Kimura laughs, low and quiet. "Was that better?"  
  
Tsuyoshi nods into the pillow. Lifting his head seems like too much effort.  
  
Kimura _hmm_ s and sits up. "I'm gonna use your shower."  
  
Tsuyoshi turns his head, watching his bandmate's naked backside. He supposes he could argue that it's _his_ bathroom and he should get to shower first, but then he'd have to get up, and he's pretty sure he doesn't have enough energy left for that. He feels too good to move, anyway. Is it natural for him to feel this good? Everywhere Kimura has touched him is hot, burning like his bandmate is made of starfire inside.  
  
Which is an odd thing to think, he muses sleepily over the sound of the shower, but he wouldn't put it past Kimura to be made of something unusual, because no one else has the effect on Tsuyoshi that Kimura does. Maybe that's why he can never seem to catch up with his bandmate. Maybe they're made of different things.  
  
He closes his eyes and wonders what it's like to be made of starfire.


	3. Love Loser

Kimura isn't there in the morning. Which is good; Tsuyoshi's not sure he could have handled waking up next to his bandmate sticky and sore and his head full of the previous night. He'd lain there for a while, his brain dutifully reminding him of how fast he'd come and all the embarrassing noises he'd made along the way, and then he'd taken a bath and stared at the bottles slightly out of place from usual and wondered if he was supposed to stop being attracted to Kimura now. He'd gotten what he wanted; so shouldn't he stop wanting it?  
  
After all, he thinks between drama shoots, he _is_ twenty-five. It's about time he grew up and out of this silly crush. They're just playing around, anyway, like a practice round of kendo, sizing each other up but not out to win or lose. The last thing he needs is to take it too seriously.  
  
  
A week later, he's thought about it nearly every day (as well as every night) and he's almost certain he can act casual around Kimura when he runs into said bandmate in the hallway. Kimura is wearing ripped jeans and a shirt with something in English emblazoned across the front and his hair pulled back with a few locks hanging over his face and Tsuyoshi can't stop staring.  
  
"Hey," Kimura says. Tsuyoshi swallows, and manages a nod in return.  
  
Should he say something? What should he say? He can't think of anything to say besides _Sorry I fell asleep_ and he's not sure if he should apologize for that or if it would be incredibly lame and anyway he's just noticed that Kimura's nails are painted black and now he's blushing because all he can think about is Kimura's hands on his hips and the way they'd left faint red marks that distracted him whenever he looked in the mirror and made him wonder what mark Kimura would leave on him the next time--  
  
"Here."  
  
Kimura pulls a cd from his bag and holds it out. Tsuyoshi takes it, trying to decipher the scrawling English letters on the cover. It's an Aerosmith album.  
  
"It's _your_ birthday this month, not mine," he says, turning it over. He can't read any of the song titles.  
  
"It's not a present."  
  
"Oh." The cd suddenly feels incredibly fragile. "Thanks." Tsuyoshi clutches the cd and tries to come up with something more intelligent to say. He glances up to find his bandmate's eyes flicking away from his mouth.  
  
"I'd lend you a Bon Jovi one too but a friend's got it right now," Kimura says, tapping one painted fingernail on the cd case. "Anyway, lemme know what you think." He brushes the hanging locks of hair out of his face and glances at Tsuyoshi again-- but then his eyes slip past him because Tsuyoshi's manager is calling for him, and all Tsuyoshi can manage is another mumbled thanks before he turns and flees down the hall.  
  
Tsuyoshi's drama shoot stretches long into the night but he listens to the cd anyway as soon as he gets home, lying on the floor and pressing the headphones to his ears. The music is raw and explosive, wailing guitars and heavy bass and a singer who rasps and croons and screams himself rough with too much to express. Tsuyoshi wonders if this is who Kimura wants to be. He's always followed in Kimura's footsteps, but he doesn't think he could be _this_.  
  
He turns the volume up as loud as he dares and tries to stop thinking about Kimura, about whether this just Kimura keeping his word or if it's some kind of gesture that he doesn't know the meaning of or if Kimura would have offered to drive him home if he hadn't had filming that night. The music makes him think of Kimura's clothes and of Kimura _without_ clothes, as rough and raw and hungry as the voice in his ears, and Tsuyoshi suddenly wishes he knew Kimura's phone number-- even though he's sure he'd never have the courage to call it. But then at least he could imagine calling it, and imagine asking, and imagine that it might even be so easy that Kimura would say _yes_.  
  
  
"Um-- here."  
  
Kimura looks down at Tsuyoshi's offering. They're standing in the doorway of Kimura's dressing room, Tsuyoshi having just gathered up every last bit of courage he had to knock on the door.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"They're, um, jeans. Since you lent me your cd," Tsuyoshi explains, holding the carefully folded denim out. "They're really nice vintage."  
  
Kimura frowns. "It's just a cd. You don't need to lend me something in return."  
  
"I know, I just-- I thought they'd look good on you," Tsuyoshi blurts out, and then flushes and looks down at the jeans. "I mean, I wanted to lend you a cd but I didn't really have anything I thought you'd like, so then I remembered we'd talked about jeans and these are a little too long for me anyway..."  
  
Kimura takes the jeans with an exasperated noise. "Will they even fit?" He glances at Tsuyoshi and then strips off his pants, tugging the jeans on and turning to the mirror.  
  
Tsuyoshi stands next to him, looking at the older man's reflection. "They look good." He smiles. "As to be expected of a five-time Best Jeanist."  
  
Kimura snorts, but a little smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Really?" He catches Tsuyoshi's eye in the mirror, and Tsuyoshi tries to think of something to say and then remembers that he doesn't usually have conversations with Kimura so of course he wouldn't have any idea what to say. Why is that, anyway? He talks with Shingo, he talks with Goro, he even talks with Nakai now that he's gotten to know him better, so why doesn't he have the courage to talk to Kimura? Is he so afraid that Kimura will think he's stupid that he can't even blurt out a single sentence?  
  
"Um--" Tsuyoshi starts, without the faintest idea what he's about the say. "Um, the other day-- uh, thanks. It was really good."  
  
Kimura raises an eyebrow at him. "What, the cd?"  
  
"No-- I mean, that too, but-- um--" Oh god no wonder they don't talk, he really _does_ sound stupid every time he opens his mouth. "Never mind."  
  
The little quirk of a smile tugs at Kimura's mouth again, and this time Tsuyoshi is _sure_ Kimura is looking at his lips, and dammit now he's blushing and his pulse is racing and-- then the stylist is in the open doorway and Kimura turns away and Tsuyoshi excuses himself before he can lose any more of his dignity. Just playing around, just playing around. He doesn't need to win, he doesn't need to prove anything. So why is he still so nervous?  
  
  
By the time Bistro filming rolls around, Tsuyoshi still doesn't have the answer to that question, and this time he really _does_ need to win. It's his turn to partner with Kimura.  
  
When he walks past the break room, Nakai is sitting outside, smoking and going over the script. He glances up at Tsuyoshi, and squints oddly at him. "You okay?"  
  
"Huh?" Tsuyoshi fusses with his sleeves, trying to remember how the cuffs should go.  
  
Nakai sets the script aside, putting out his cigarette. "You look nervous."  
  
Tsuyoshi smiles as best as he can. "A little." He's not nervous, he's terrified. He's been on Kimura's team for years; why is he so terrified _now_?  
  
Nakai looks him over for a second, and gets up. "Your hat's backwards." He reaches up and pulls it off Tsuyoshi's head, turning it around so that the kiss marks are on the right side. "Because it's Kimura?" he asks, quiet enough for no one around to hear.  
  
Tsuyoshi fumbles with the hat as he pulls it back on. Does Nakai know? _How_ does he know? He can't possibly have guessed, or maybe it's obvious, maybe he can smell Kimura's scent still lingering on him--  
  
"You're always more nervous with Kimura," Nakai adds, smiling wryly. He thumps Tsuyoshi's shoulder. "You'll be fine. What's there to worry about?"  
  
  
The filming is a nightmare. Tsuyoshi can barely focus on what he's supposed to be doing-- he chops vegetables the wrong way, forgets steps in the recipe, adds the wrong ingredients to the wrong dish and has to pick them out surreptitiously while the camera isn't looking-- and he can't calm down enough to stop his hands from shaking because Kimura is _there_ and he knows Kimura is watching what he's doing and he knows Kimura wants to win and he knows he's going to disappoint him because that's all Tsuyoshi is good at. Normally it wouldn't matter so much to Tsuyoshi but it matters a lot now, like there's something more at stake than just pride--  
  
Tsuyoshi turns, carrying a bowl of water, and runs smack into Kimura.  
  
The water splashes all over Kimura's front, soaking his sleeves and chest. Tsuyoshi stares in horror, still clutching the bowl.  
  
"You--" Kimura advances on him, mouth twisting in anger. Tsuyoshi backs away, trying to be anywhere but in the way of Kimura's wrath-- and then his back hits a counter and Kimura grabs his wrist and he drops the bowl with a loud clatter. Kimura's hand is painfully tight and he's leaning in and for the white-hot moment when Tsuyoshi meets Kimura's eyes he isn't sure if he's terrified that Kimura is going to yell at him or hit him or kiss him. Then, abruptly, Kimura's hand relaxes and he drops his gaze to Tsuyoshi's hand, turning it over. "It's just water," he murmurs, taking a dry corner of his apron and wiping the drops from Tsuyoshi's fingers.  
  
Somehow Nakai manages to take the awkward silence and turn it into laughter, and they break for a moment for Kimura to change into a spare top. Tsuyoshi rinses off the bowl he'd dropped; his hands aren't shaking anymore, probably because his stomach feels like it's sinking instead.  
  
"Tsuyopon, you okay? You're not usually _that_ clumsy." Shingo leans on the counter on the opposite side of the sink, looking up at Tsuyoshi curiously.  
  
Tsuyoshi smiles at him. "Yeah. Guess I just wasn't paying attention."  
  
"You need a break from all that drama filming," Shingo asserts. "Wanna have a drink after this? You don't have anything tonight, right?"  
  
Tsuyoshi can hear footsteps behind him, and from the way Shingo glances over he knows Kimura is standing next to him. He hesitates-- but it's true he doesn't have anything tonight, he's probably lost whatever chance he might have had because he's too cowardly and clumsy to hang onto it. "Sure. Meet you at my dressing room?"  
  
When Shingo goes back to the other side, Tsuyoshi risks a peek over at Kimura. "Sorry," he says quietly.  
  
Kimura doesn't say anything, but wordlessly takes the bowl from his hands and starts drying it. They don't win the Bistro.  
  
  
Tsuyoshi opens another beer after Shingo leaves. He can't remember if it's the fourth or the fifth but he doesn't feel drunk yet and he really wants to be drunk because he keeps _thinking_.  
  
He really needs to stop thinking about Kimura.  
  
He can remember a time when Kimura used to hold his hand, when they used to be able to laugh together, when Kimura used to smile a little easier and didn't seem so damn perfect all the time. What happened? But he knows what happened; Kimura had grown into a star, leading SMAP into the light even as he fought against what SMAP had to become ( _don't laugh at me I'm not a goddamn comedian_ ), and Tsuyoshi had treated him like one.  
  
He stares at his cell phone lying on the table and suddenly wishes, again, that he knew Kimura's phone number. Not to ask him over, no-- he's been fooling himself thinking he ever had a chance of becoming something like _that_ to Kimura-- but maybe he could apologize. He's got a lot of things to apologize for. Like Mount Fuji. _Especially_ Mount Fuji, he probably can't apologize enough for that, because even though he knew he'd brought it on himself there had been a little seed of resentment in his heart because every step Kimura took just made it even more abundantly clear how perfect his bandmate was and how stupid, pathetic, useless, wishy-washy, unappealing--  
  
The doorbell rings. Tsuyoshi blinks out of his thoughts-- who would be at his door at this hour? Shingo's gone home, he doesn't remember calling anyone, and he's not drunk enough to order delivery-- but when he stumbles to the door to answer it the face that greets him is almost enough to sober him up.  
  
"Kimura-kun?" Tsuyoshi leans against the doorframe, trying not to sway.  
  
Kimura studies him for a second. "Are you drunk?"  
  
Tsuyoshi hesitates, feeling guilty even though it's his own free time. "Only a little."  
  
Kimura raises an eyebrow. Of course Kimura can see right through him. He hasn't even said hello yet and he's already disapproving of Tsuyoshi. Maybe they can reminisce about Mount Fuji after all.  
  
Tsuyoshi grips the doorframe and forces himself to stand upright. "Um. So. What's up?"  
  
"I was in the area," Kimura says vaguely, still studying him. "Thought I'd come by." He's got that unreadable expression on his face, the one where he could be angry or amused or not giving a fucking damn. Tsuyoshi hates that expression; he's always been bad at reading people but it's like Kimura is extra inscrutable just to make it more difficult for him--  
  
"Got any left?"  
  
Tsuyoshi blinks. Kimura's mouth has twisted from a firm line to something quirking at one corner. He still can't tell what it means, but he's got at least four beers' worth of courage in him this time. He opens the door to see what will happen.  
  
There's a long space of silence in the time it takes to walk from the front door to the living room, but then Kimura is taking off his coat and asking him about his drama and by the time they both sit down with beers in hand Tsuyoshi is rambling about everything he can think of and Kimura is laughing and it's like they do this all the time.  
  
When Kimura gets up to get a second beer Tsuyoshi notices he's wearing the jeans he lent him. They really do look good on him. Everything looks good on him.  
  
Kimura pauses on his way back, looking down at the table. The Aerosmith cd is lying out, still open from when Tsuyoshi listened to it. "Did you like it?"  
  
Tsuyoshi nods, biting the lip of his beer can. "Made me think of you."  
  
Kimura laughs, bumping his shoulder against Tsuyoshi's as he sits, and Tsuyoshi feels his pulse quicken at the touch. It's unfair, how he reacts so easily to his bandmate; he's been fucked on his hands and knees by him and still just looking at the older man makes his heart race. It's like every atom in his body is tuned to Kimura's wavelength, like even the sound of him taking a breath is nuclear fusion and if Kimura wanted to he could send him flying apart.  
  
Tsuyoshi doesn't mean to look but Kimura catches him at it, a glance sideways that makes Tsuyoshi avert his eyes like he's guilty of something. He stares down at his hands. He can't tell if he wants to apologize or say something resentful or if maybe it's really all just him wanting Kimura, wanting to _be_ Kimura. Or is that a contradiction?  
  
Kimura leans back and stretches, long and luxurious, and settles his arm on the back of the couch. "You stopped talking."  
  
"Huh?" Tsuyoshi sits still, acutely aware of Kimura's arm. "Um, I-- I guess I ran out of things to say."  
  
Kimura glances over again. "Nervous?" Tsuyoshi nods, wordlessly.  
  
Fingertips brush his shoulder. "I know." In the space of silence, they slip to his collar, trailing upward. "Because of me?"  
  
Tsuyoshi looks up. Kimura is staring at him, like maybe he's studying him, or maybe he's hypnotized. He strokes Tsuyoshi's neck lightly, brushing his earlobe, one finger tracing over his earring. "What're you so afraid of," he murmurs, but it's not really a question because then Kimura wraps his arm around his shoulders and pulls him close and kisses him.  
  
It's soft and slow and strangely gentle, not at all what Tsuyoshi expects. They haven't really kissed much, come to think of it. Not like this, there hasn't been time for kissing like this, not that he's complaining but he _likes_ this. It makes him feel like he doesn't need to apologize, like it doesn't matter if they're made of different things. It makes him feel like he doesn't need to win.  
  
They break apart and Tsuyoshi's heart is beating too fast to look at Kimura so he looks down again instead, at the lines in Kimura's jeans. The color seems even more vivid now. He traces one finger along the seam, his fingernail scratching against the denim where it stretches over Kimura's knee.  
  
Kimura laughs, soft and low. "Don't ruin my vintage." His arm is still around Tsuyoshi's shoulders, heavy, warm, pressing their sides together. Tsuyoshi thinks he could stay like this forever.  
  
Kimura glances at him. "Do you want to--"  
  
"Yes," Tsuyoshi replies immediately. He realizes a beat later that Kimura could have been asking him anything, like if he wants to go surfing or shopping or wrestling live sharks, but really, it doesn't make a difference. Right now, with Kimura's arm around him and his pulse racing in his ears, he feels like he could become anything.  
  
  
This time, Kimura spends the night.  
  
At least, Tsuyoshi is pretty sure he does, because he remembers Kimura heading to the shower but he also remembers someone climbing back into bed and pulling the covers over both of them, and even though Kimura isn't there when he wakes up, his smell is still there, lingering in the blankets next to Tsuyoshi.  
  
Tsuyoshi scoots over and buries his head in the sheets, breathing in that scent. He can already feel a headache starting to set in. But somehow, being surrounded by the smell of his bandmate makes it a little easier.  
  
He's almost drifted off again when the covers are pulled back, morning flooding in. "Hey," Kimura says, already half-dressed and rubbing his eyes painfully. "I'll drive you to work."  
  
  
They're both hungover and don't have to be at work yet but Kimura insists on driving, so Tsuyoshi tucks himself into the passenger seat and closes his eyes against the morning light. Kimura takes them to his own apartment first.  
  
"You can wait here if you want," Kimura tells him. Tsuyoshi cracks his eyes open and watches him jog across the pavement for a moment, and then scrambles out of the car, running to catch up. It's awkwardly silent all the way to Kimura's apartment, and Tsuyoshi starts to wonder if he should have stayed in the car when Kimura opens the door and a fuzzy black muzzle pokes out to greet him.  
  
"Bonita," Kimura coos, crouching to scratch the labrador's neck. "Have you been a good girl?"  
  
Bonita wags her tail furiously and noses Kimura's face with a happy whuffling noise. Then, abruptly, she rounds on Tsuyoshi, sniffing his legs curiously.  
  
Tsuyoshi hesitates-- he's never owned a pet, and he's not really sure how to act around dogs-- but Kimura is watching him, so he offers Bonita a hand. She sniffs it thoroughly, wagging her tail again.  
  
"C'mon girl, let's go for a walk," Kimura tells her, ducking inside and returning with a leash. Bonita breaks away, vibrating with barely-contained energy as Kimura slips the leash over her head, and nearly drags him down the stairs to get outside. On the sidewalk, she dances all over the path, pulling this way and that to smell every interesting-looking rock and leaf; when they reach a nearby park, Kimura lets her off the leash and she tears across the grass in wide, happy circles.  
  
Tsuyoshi stands next to Kimura on the edge of the lawn, hands in his pockets. "Kind of reminds me of her owner."  
  
Kimura huffs out a soft laugh, his breath turning white in the air. "Am I that bad?"  
  
They watch Bonita quietly, not looking at each other.  
  
"Really bad," Tsuyoshi replies after a moment. "But that's why people like you."  
  
Kimura snorts, crouching to greet Bonita as she runs back to them. "And here I thought it was because they wanted to have sex with me."  
  
"That too," Tsuyoshi agrees. Bonita turns to sniff at him again, standing on her hind legs to nose his hands curiously. He bends down to stroke her neck, earning a friendly lick on his cheek.  
  
"She seems to like you," Kimura says, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth.  
  
Tsuyoshi dodges another friendly lick, scratching behind Bonita's ears. "Maybe I smell like you."  
  
Kimura stands, the smile slipping away, and Tsuyoshi wonders if he's said the wrong thing. But then his bandmate takes a step towards him, and another, and another, until he's looking down at Tsuyoshi with an unreadable expression-- and then he leans against Tsuyoshi and buries his nose in his neck and inhales deeply.  
  
"You don't smell like me at all," he murmurs. His lips brush Tsuyoshi's neck, making him shiver. "Do you want to?"  
  
Tsuyoshi can smell his hair, his skin, the cigarette he smoked that morning. He leans into Kimura's weight, closing his eyes so it's all he can feel. "Yes."  
  
Kimura presses his lips to Tsuyoshi's neck again. "Come home with me," he whispers. The words are hot on Tsuyoshi's skin, and then Kimura's arms wrap around his shoulders and Tsuyoshi thinks he must be imagining it but something makes him wonder if Kimura isn't afraid, too. "Come home with _me_ tonight."  
  
His hands slip out of his pockets and return the embrace without a second thought. "Yes," he breathes, holding Kimura as close as he can. "Yes."  
  
  
Tsuyoshi has barely stepped out of his shoes before Kimura slips an arm around his waist and kisses him. They wind up leaning against the hallway wall, limbs tangling even as Kimura tries to divest Tsuyoshi of his coat, until Bonita noses at their knees and Kimura has to break away to shut her in the shower room with a chew toy.  
  
Tsuyoshi tugs his coat the rest of the way off. He's already hard.  
  
He's been to Kimura's place once before, years ago on some night out with Shingo and Nakai and Mori, but he doesn't remember anything except that he thought it smelled like girls, or least what he thought girls smelled like back then. Now it just smells like he's wrapped up in Kimura.  
  
Kimura comes up behind him and then he really is wrapped up in Kimura, his coat slipping out of his fingers as his bandmate kisses his neck, nuzzles his ear, nips at his earlobe dangerously close to his earring. Tsuyoshi leans back into him, gasping as he sucks lightly at the stud. He can feel Kimura getting hard through his jeans and wonders if maybe Kimura will fuck him right there in the hallway, because he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere and neither is Tsuyoshi when his bandmate's tongue is flicking his earring like that. He's never considered it a particularly erogenous spot before, but then nothing about him reacts the way it normally does when he's around Kimura.  
  
Kimura pauses, his lips still brushing Tsuyoshi's ear. "You got it because of me, didn't you."  
  
Tsuyoshi blushes even though it's not really a question; it was as obvious then as it is now. "Yeah," he breathes, reaching up to touch it. Kimura intercepts his fingers and pulls them toward his own ear instead, brushing them across the little metal loop Tsuyoshi knows is there.  
  
Tsuyoshi half turns, afraid he'll pull on it, only to find Kimura looking at him curiously as though he's just caught a glimpse of what Tsuyoshi is made of. "I like it," Kimura murmurs in a low voice, and turns his head to kiss the pads of Tsuyoshi's fingers.  
  
They make it to Kimura's bed in stops and starts, losing their shirts on the arm of the couch and the rest on the bedroom floor (Tsuyoshi decides his jeans will be okay if he doesn't fold them for _one_ night) and then the back of Tsuyoshi's knees hit the edge of the bed and Kimura is on top of him, mouth and hands spreading fire everywhere but not grinding against him yet, not burning fast but savoring it slow. He seeks out one of Tsuyoshi's nipples, sucking and nibbling until Tsuyoshi twines his fingers in the older man's hair with an urgent noise, hips twitching involuntarily, but even then Kimura just grins through his hair and runs a hand along Tsuyoshi's thigh to thumb at the crease where it meets his groin.  
  
When Kimura finally slips a finger inside him Tsuyoshi is already dripping, flushed and short of breath. He wonders if he should roll over, but Kimura is lying on top of one of his legs and, Tsuyoshi suddenly realizes, he's _watching_ him. Tsuyoshi averts his eyes, feeling embarrassment creep over him-- Kimura's already seen him like this twice now but he hasn't had to _see_ Kimura see him like this-- and then Kimura's finger finds that spot inside him and Tsuyoshi couldn't hold back the sound he makes even if he was in front of an entire concert hall.  
  
Kimura does it again, again, watching Tsuyoshi with his lips parted like making Tsuyoshi come apart at the seams is the only thing in his existence that matters right now. Tsuyoshi still can't look at him-- why can't he look at him, he's already sweaty and sticky and thick with arousal and he _wants_ Kimura to look at him, he _wants_ Kimura to pay attention to him like this, he's just still afraid of showing how _much_ he wants it because he's never, ever been good enough before.  
  
Two fingers, and Tsuyoshi can feel a flickering of heat. He drags his fingers down his stomach, tempted, but Kimura bends over and meets them with his mouth, kissing them and turning his face into them so that Tsuyoshi is caressing his cheek. Tsuyoshi catches his eyes then, just for an instant.  
  
"Tsuyoshi," Kimura whispers.  
  
Then his fingers withdraw and he's kneeling between Tsuyoshi's legs, and Tsuyoshi takes him in completely. Kimura braces himself over him and thrusts, there's no going slow now, they both want this too much and whatever Kimura might have been afraid of is forgotten in his need to fill the world with the sound and sight and smell of them. Tsuyoshi digs his fingernails in and lets himself moan with every thrust, trying to tighten around Kimura even as he feels heat building up unbearably inside him, he can't stand it but he wants _more_ , he wants Kimura to go faster, rougher, he needs Kimura to burn him inside and out and leave nothing left--  
  
Kimura's hand wraps around him and then Tsuyoshi is gone, spurting over his bandmate's fingers sticky and hot and mingled with the moan Kimura makes as he follows Tsuyoshi into oblivion.  
  
When Kimura lifts his head, Tsuyoshi curls his fingers into his bandmate's back and kisses him. Everything is still burning in his veins, maybe not as hot as starfire but just as bright, like the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, like maybe whatever he's made of might just be good enough after all. Kimura wraps his arms around him and all the spaces between them seem to fill; they're fused together, an alloy of two different things that somehow, impossibly, seem to work.  
  
Tsuyoshi looks at his hands on Kimura's back and sees, finally, how badly he's lost. Kimura had come to him, sultry and seductive, and he'd let him in. There's no chance of turning the tide now-- Kimura has defeated him, beyond all shadow of doubt, as thoroughly as if he'd knocked the sword completely out of his hands.  
  
But this time, for once in his life, Tsuyoshi doesn't mind admitting defeat.


	4. Haa

From the start, from as far back as he can remember, Kimura has always known Tsuyoshi looked up to him. They're both so-called idols but Tsuyoshi has always seemed to see him as something more, something breathlessly perfect and shining and as unreachable as the stars in the sky.  
  
Kimura hates being a star; it makes him uncomfortable in his own skin, like everything that's actually _him_ is burning away from the inside. He doesn't want to be made of fire. What can fire do but hurt everything that gets too close?  
  
What he hates more, though, is when Tsuyoshi is right.  
  
In stage lights and camera flashes, Kimura is the center of attention. He can put on any face he wants, move his body however he wants, say just about anything he wants, and the audience will soak it up in rapt adoration. It's _approval_ , something he's known only sparingly but craves all the more for it, and it's that approval that drives him to burn brighter than all the rest. He has to be a star, he has to be perfect, he has to _win_ , because if he doesn't he'll just be written off as a disappointment.  
  
So when Tsuyoshi's mouth twists at yet another lost kendo fight, ready to blame it on Kimura's _perfection_ instead of years of training and practice, Kimura wants to tell him to be glad he's not a star. It doesn't hurt as much when you don't burn as bright.  
  
And after all, don't stars burn out in the end anyway?  
  
  
_Takuya. This isn't going to work._  
  
And that was it. Nine years turned completely meaningless, a gap in time that he was supposed to forget as though it had never existed.  
  
You didn't forget nine years. You went to sleep at night with them weighing down on you like winter and you woke up in the morning with them written in the disarray of the blankets. They filled your senses, settled on your skin, sank into your bones. They were part of you.  
  
Kimura wakes up in a bed too large for one in an apartment that smells like her and needs something, anything, it doesn't matter what as long as it's a distraction. To get smashed and tear up the dance floor and break someone's nose and fuck somebody senseless, to hell with the consequences and the look on Nakai's face the next day. If it makes him feel like he still exists, to hell with the rest.  
  
But first, he has to go to work.  
  
  
And there Tsuyoshi is, barely able to remember his lines through the fantasies flickering in his head, practically worshipping the ground he walks on and looking at him like he's all but begging him to seduce him. He's only seeing Kimura as a star and Kimura hates it, but right now, right now he just wants to believe in it so that he can be everything to someone again.  
  
It's almost too easy.  
  
He's never had a guy's dick in his mouth before, but Kimura is nothing if not good at doing things on the first try. It's curiously powerful, to be able to reduce Tsuyoshi to incoherent pleasure (not that he was ever that coherent to begin with) with just his mouth. Every gasp, every twitch of skin is because of _him_. He wants more, he wants to fill Tsuyoshi's mind until the younger man can't think of anything else, just how much he wants Kimura Kimura Kimura, and when he comes he'll know it's _Kimura_ who made him.  
  
Tsuyoshi's breath catches and that's all the warning Kimura gets-- but it doesn't matter. It feels good.  
  
He doesn't realize _how_ good until he's halfway out the door. At least _his_ jeans aren't vintage.  
  
  
Tsuyoshi is a complete mess the next day, and Kimura feels a little guilty about it then. He's not trying to drive his bandmate crazy, after all. But couldn't Tsuyoshi act a little more normal? It's not like it needs to mean anything-- he gave Tsuyoshi what he wanted, and Tsuyoshi gave him what _he_ wanted. That's all.  
  
By the time Tsuyoshi seems to have figured that out, though, Kimura's not so sure. The apartment still smells like her no matter how much he cleans. Even Bonita curled heavily at his feet can't keep the room from feeling too large, too quiet, too empty. He needs to feel in control again.  
  
And Tsuyoshi certainly doesn't seem to mind, anyway.  
  
Kimura doesn't get off from it this time-- the thrill of doing something new must have worn off-- but the rush of power is every bit as good. Tsuyoshi surrenders himself completely, coming undone in all the right places at the beck and call of Kimura's attention, and when he gasps and bites his fingers and moans oh god oh _god_ \-- damned if Kimura doesn't _feel_ like one. There was no way just once would ever have been enough.  
  
Certainly not twice, either.  
  
  
It's kind of like an addiction, Kimura thinks, rubbing at lips that look suspiciously red in the mirror. He keeps thinking he's fine now, that all he needed was something different for a while, but then he keeps wanting it again. He really should stop before this gets out of hand, before--  
  
"What about you?"  
  
Him? Oh, right. He's been taking care of _that_ on his own-- he's pretty sure Tsuyoshi's never gotten a guy off other than himself, so it seems like a lot to ask when he could just finish himself off with a few quick strokes later. Tsuyoshi's already giving him exactly what he needs, anyway. But if he's willing to offer... then really, what could it hurt?  
  
By the time he has Tsuyoshi on his back on his bed with his hair tickling the younger man's thighs, Kimura's spent far too much time thinking about it, even watched porn and experimented a bit, and there's no question that he wants to. But something makes him hesitate. Neither of them really know what they're doing, in any sense of the word. Maybe they should just leave it at that.  
  
But Tsuyoshi doesn't, and after that Kimura isn't about to back out. He strips his shirt off, letting his bandmate watch him, and strokes himself to get harder-- and then Tsuyoshi reaches out and suddenly Kimura's the one watching, sucking in his breath as the younger man's fingers move uncertainly on him and he frowns like he's concentrating on how to make Kimura feel good. That alone shouldn't be enough to make it feel so good, maybe it's been too long since he's had someone else's hand on him, but it's too much to watch, he leans in to kiss Tsuyoshi instead. Why does it feel so damn good? Tsuyoshi speeds up and does something with his fingers and Kimura should really be stronger than this but at this rate he's going to end up coming right here in his bandmate's inexpert hand, so--  
  
"Let's _fuck_."  
  
  
Tsuyoshi's asleep when Kimura gets out of the shower. He pulls his clothes on quietly, glancing over at his bandmate's sleeping form. Dreaming of jeans, probably. If only he could fall asleep that easily these days.  
  
He's almost tempted to stay, but he doesn't feel quite like he'd fit in that narrow strip of space next to Tsuyoshi. Sex is one thing; spending the night is another. They're just playing around, after all.  
  
He tosses the corner of the blanket over his sleeping bandmate and heads home to his own waiting bed.  
  
  
_Just playing around_ doesn't explain why he spend twenty minutes picking out which cd to lend to Tsuyoshi, or why he finds himself staring at his bandmate's lips and wondering if he could get away with leaning in, just once, quickly, when no one's watching.  
  
_Just playing_ doesn't explain why he's so conflicted about a damn pair of jeans, or why he's so irrationally happy about a tiny little compliment.  
  
_Just playing_ isn't the way it feels standing in front of Tsuyoshi's door, hand still burning with the memory of his bandmate's wrist, trying to decide whether to ring the doorbell or not. He's even wearing the damn jeans, as if that will stand in for some kind of apology. He can't tell if that makes him angry because he hates apologizing or because he hates that Tsuyoshi makes him feel like apologizing, or because he knows he's too proud to anyway. He just wants Tsuyoshi to not look at him like that again. He's not going to hurt Tsuyoshi; doesn't his bandmate know that?  
  
It takes waking up tangled in Tsuyoshi's sheets, one side lined with warmth and everything smelling different-- he should know this smell by now, but it seems new, unfamiliar-- to wonder if maybe this isn't _just playing_ anymore. Here in this narrow strip of space next to his bandmate, he still doesn't know if he fits right but he wants to, suddenly, because the alternative is going home another day to an apartment with no one in it. He's going to go insane, he's going to burn himself from the inside out until he's nothing but empty thoughts. He doesn't need a distraction, he needs _this_ , he needs more than this. He wants everything Tsuyoshi is willing to give him.  
  
  
_"Do you want to?" he asks, trying to breathe in as much of Tsuyoshi as he can in the bitter cold air. Tsuyoshi leans into him, like he's intoxicated just by the feel of Kimura's breath on his skin. Kimura doesn't know how his bandmate can find him so perfect; right now, he feels anything but._  
  
_"Yes," Tsuyoshi sighs, and Kimura wants to pull him closer but he hesitates. He can't remember how it was so easy, before; it's like stepping into a real match after years of only sparring-- every movement suddenly matters that much more, every false step could mean losing in an instant._  
  
_He kisses Tsuyoshi's neck and whispers what he wants, or maybe it's a plea, that maybe Tsuyoshi will understand even when he isn't sure he knows himself. But he can't stop to think; he's a star, after all, he doesn't have time, he burns too quickly to second-guess himself. It feels right, and that's how he lives his life._  
  
_"Come home with me tonight."_


	5. Hoshizora no shita de/Under the Starry Sky

Kimura wakes to the chime of the doorbell, dragging him blearily out of bed and into a pair of sweats. He peers through the peephole, and nine years come crashing back down onto his shoulders.  
  
"Sorry to wake you." She's holding a cd, carefully, with both hands. "I found this when I was cleaning."  
  
It's a Bon Jovi album, the one he couldn't find when he was searching a few weeks ago. Has it really been that long?  
  
"Thanks." His fingers brush the tips of her manicured nails.  
  
Behind him, he can hear the sound of rustling from the bedroom.  
  
"I don't think I ever listened to it," she says softly, biting her lip. The blankets folding back; unsteady, obvious footsteps on carpet. "But I guess it's too late now."  
  
Kimura looks down at the cd. This is when he says that it isn't, when he invites her in and the lead roles get back together and the drama ends. But he can't, because this isn't that drama; there is no script for the choices he's made.  
  
She smiles. It's just like the one when she said goodbye. "I'll see you later, then."  
  
"Yeah." Kimura smiles back, knowing he never will.  
  
He leans against the closed door until her footsteps fade and the sound of bare feet on carpet makes him open his eyes. Tsuyoshi is standing in the living room, halfway dressed, his phone in one hand as if he's been considering it. "Kimura-kun--"  
  
"Let's stop." Kimura grips the cd tightly, the corners digging into his hand. He wants to break it in half and throw the pieces at Tsuyoshi even though it's not his bandmate's fault he's here. It's Kimura's fault, because he's a star, because he pulls people in and then he burns them. "I was just using you to fill space. Go find someone who actually _wants_ you."  
  
Tsuyoshi looks at him. Very slowly, he puts his phone away and reaches for his shirt.  
  
When he's gone, Kimura slumps down against the door and wonders if it's too soon for him to burn out. At least then it wouldn't hurt so much.  
  
  
During rehearsal, Tsuyoshi is clearly not paying attention. He forgets all the steps, stumbles, bumps into the backdancers. Everyone asks if he's alright, is he feeling well, he looks a little feverish so maybe he should sit this one out? Tsuyoshi nods mutely and turns-- and looks at Kimura, because Kimura is standing there and Tsuyoshi will have to walk past him to go sit down.  
  
Tsuyoshi runs out of the room.  
  
His manager chases after him, followed by Shingo; a few minutes later, the latter returns with a worried expression. "He threw up."  
  
Nakai sighs. "So he _is_ sick, then."  
  
Goro looks vaguely alarmed. "You don't think it's the flu, do you?"  
  
"Dunno, his manager's gonna take him home." Shingo goes to his starting position, glancing back at Kimura. "Hope he'll be okay."  
  
Kimura bites down on the tip of his tongue. He wants to run out of there, to find Tsuyoshi and--  
  
No. This isn't a drama. He's surrounded by their bandmates, yet another reason why it was a stupid idea in the first place. What right does he have to be that selfish? Tsuyoshi will be fine; he'll get over it, and they'll go back to the way things have always been.  
  
A small, dark part of him wonders if this is what he was trying to do all along: to hurt someone and make them feel the way he felt, just so he wouldn't be the only one to feel that way. At least now Tsuyoshi knows what kind of person he _really_ is.  
  
  
Tsuyoshi doesn't come in the next day; his manager calls and tells them it's probably one of those 24-hour bugs and Tsuyoshi will be fine if he just gets some rest. A dancer stands in for him during rehearsal, movements slick and graceful like Tsuyoshi's never are, and Kimura feels like throwing up himself.  
  
He can't even think about going back to his apartment. He calls up some friends and goes out to forget who he is.  
  
It works, for a little bit; but when he stumbles off the dance floor and sinks into one of the couches, all he can think of is Tsuyoshi pressed up against his side, wanting so badly to look at him but not daring. He orders another drink and stares at his knee until a friend joins him.  
  
"Tired already?" She brushes her hair back over her shoulder, raising a delicate eyebrow at him. "I thought you loved dancing."  
  
"Yeah." Kimura pulls out a cigarette and lights it. "Just not into it today."  
  
She looks at him thoughtfully. They've known each other for a long time, through years in the same business together. "Break-up?"  
  
Kimura doesn't answer for a moment, tapping ash into the tray. "It's more complicated than that."  
  
She leans against his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. "It always is."  
  
He tells her about it. She listens. When he falls quiet, they sit in silence for a while, a beautiful woman leaning on a beautiful man like the perfect fairytale romance everyone always dreams of. He could, he thinks, and she would probably say yes. But he's tired of hurting people.  
  
Then she sits up and gives him a sharp look. "Are you _sure_ you want that drink?"  
  
  
And so here he is, standing at the edge of the park watching Bonita race off the day's energy in happy circles. He squats on the grass, looking up at the sky; but this is Tokyo, the only stars you'll see here are the ones that shine on the ground. He snorts, and then wishes, suddenly, that he knew Tsuyoshi's phone number.  
  
He has no right to, he thinks, plucking at blades of grass. Tsuyoshi has every reason to be sick, to be mortified, to finally see who Kimura really is. But maybe, at the very least, he could apologize. He's got a lot of things to apologize for, really--  
  
His phone rings.  
  
It's a number he doesn't recognize. He stares at it, the screen lighting up his small patch of darkness. He shouldn't answer. It could be anyone. It could be a prank call, or a fan, or--  
  
"Kimura-kun? Are you home?"  
  
Kimura sits down, shaking with-- he's not sure what. "I'm walking Bonita. How'd you get my number?"  
  
Tsuyoshi laughs, a bitter breath of air. "I asked my manager," he says. "I guess it was easier than I thought." His voice lowers. "Sorry I missed rehearsal."  
  
"Tsuyoshi." Kimura yanks a blade of grass free. "What do you want?" As if _he_ hadn't been thinking about calling to apologize just a second ago. Now that it's actually a possibility, he's not even capable of that, is he?  
  
Tsuyoshi doesn't say anything for a long moment. Kimura wonders if he's drunk-- but drunk Tsuyoshi is loud and arguing and stubborn, anything but calm and reserved. Anything but silent, like there are a million thoughts that he wants to say and no words to express them.  
  
"To talk."  
  
Kimura rubs his eyes. He's sitting in a freezing park, at nearly midnight, on the phone with a bandmate whom he's been fucking for a month and whom he's just broken up with-- no, not _broken up_ , that would mean they'd been something more than what they were-- who wants to _talk_ about it. If Kimura were good at _talking_ about things he wouldn't be here. "Yeah?"  
  
Tsuyoshi takes a breath and lets it out again wordlessly. Kimura presses his lips together and waits.  
  
It takes Tsuyoshi even longer, maybe he's second-guessing himself, maybe he just doesn't have the courage, but when he says it, it's with deliberation: "About us."  
  
 _Us_. The word rings of dinner dates and borrowed clothes and couples walking dogs in parks.  
  
Kimura's first instinct is to deny it, to say _there is no us_ and settle it then and there. But he can't; it would be a lie. At the very least, he's not going to tell his bandmate another lie.  
  
"If you don't want me, then just tell me," Tsuyoshi says quietly. "I hate it when people play games."  
  
"It's not a _game_ ," Kimura replies, pressing his hand to the cold, unyielding ground. It's-- it's-- he doesn't know what it is. For all that he hates being squeezed into a label, he hates not being able to define something even more. "I was using you. I'm sorry."  
  
"I didn't care." Tsuyoshi's voice is soft and bitter. "I was happy about it."  
  
"You were terrified," Kimura corrects. Tsuyoshi doesn't reply. "I wanted you to stop being afraid of me. But maybe you were right."  
  
"You're not that kind of person," Tsuyoshi murmurs.  
  
"I could be." It's Kimura's turn to laugh bitterly. "How would _you_ know?"  
  
"Kimura-kun." Tsuyoshi's voice is stronger now, as if he's found the one thing he's certain of saying. "I'd still have fallen for you."  
  
Kimura closes his eyes for a moment-- he's cold and shivering, he wants to laugh at being confessed to like this, but he can't. He's falling, or maybe he's being pulled, dragged down by a distant gravity. He hears footsteps on pavement and looks up; Tsuyoshi is at the corner of the park, still holding the phone to his ear.  
  
Bonita rushes up to greet him, but Kimura gets there first. "Don't you _get_ it?" He grabs Tsuyoshi's collar with both hands. "I'm not some perfect goddamn star for you to admire! You're obsessed with someone who doesn't _exist_!"  
  
Tsuyoshi clutches his arms, wide-eyed. "Kimura-kun--" Bonita yips, jumping out of the way as they stumble onto the grass.  
  
"Look at the _real_ me for once! I got dumped by the person I loved and I turned around and did the same damn thing to _you_! I'm not a star, I'm just an asshole who only cares about himself!" Kimura tightens his fingers, he can't think anymore, he can't stop, the only other choice is to let himself fall-- "For fuck's sake, Tsuyoshi, I'm supposed to look after you and instead I took _advantage_ of you!"  
  
"I _wanted_ you to!" Tsuyoshi shoves forward, feet tangling with Kimura's, and they tumble to the ground, Kimura landing on his back with Tsuyoshi on his chest. Tsuyoshi pushes himself up, looking startled at himself.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, meeting Kimura's eyes. "I'm sorry I treated you like that. I know you hated it." His fingers slip slightly on the cold grass. "I was just one more person who never tried to see who you were, wasn't I? Who never let you just be you." The younger man blinks, his eyes growing bright. "I always thought I wasn't good enough, but-- I guess I was really just pushing you away, wasn't I?"  
  
Kimura sucks in a breath of frozen night air, uncurling his fingers from Tsuyoshi's shirt. He's not sure what to do with them. "I did the same thing." The air catches in his throat as if trying to turn to ice. "I kept running ahead of you and never looked back. Not even to see if you were hurt." He swallows, voice threatening to drop to a whisper. "I'm sorry I didn't look after you better. The-- way I should have."  
  
Tsuyoshi looks down, squeezing his eyes shut. Kimura takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly, faint white against the night. It's like the fire's been knocked out of him; the coolness of the earth seeps in through his back in its place, blades of grass tickling at his neck. He really has fallen, pulled down from the unreachable sky by the one who put him there.  
  
It doesn't hurt. He doesn't know why he thought it would.  
  
"Kimura-kun." Tsuyoshi opens his eyes, taking a shaky breath. "I want to see who you are."  
  
Kimura reaches up to brush Tsuyoshi's jaw, tracing back to that earring that so desperately begged for approval. "You might not like it."  
  
"I want to see _everything_ ," Tsuyoshi insists, looking at him steadily. "I don't want to be afraid of you anymore."  
  
"Then--" Everything. The word resonates in Kimura's veins, as if every heartbeat he's had until now has longed for it. "You have to give _me_ everything, too."  
  
The younger man smiles, hesitantly at first, then growing warm with certainty. "If you want it."  
  
Kimura curls his hand around the back of Tsuyoshi's neck, pulling him in. There's no fire to burn anyone now, just the warmth of two human beings. "I want _you_ ," he says, and closes the space between them once again.  
  
Bonita sniffs them curiously, and lies down at their feet with a patient sigh.  
  
When they break apart, Tsuyoshi is thoroughly sprawled on top of him, like he's claiming him or like he's surrendering himself entirely, Kimura can't quite tell. It feels like the end of a very long match, both of them too tired to draw swords against each other anymore.  
  
He laughs, soft and low. "I think we both lost."  
  
Tsuyoshi laughs, too, and rests his head on Kimura's chest. "Maybe," he murmurs, pressing his ear close as if to listen to two hearts made of the same thing after all-- "We both won."


End file.
